


Still Life

by chrissie0707



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Post-Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissie0707/pseuds/chrissie0707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wishes like hell he did, but he didn't come out the other side unscathed. Sam's got his brother back, so he supposes a little bit of guilt as an aftertaste can't really be that bad, all things considered. S8 spoilers. Language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

He'd love to have come out the other side unscathed, and walk right back into the world he'd left behind. Not for the sake of his own well-being or mental health, which even _he_ can admit has never been something to top his list of priorities. No, for more than any other reason, he wants to both feel and exude some sense of normalcy because he's got a reputation to uphold. Because that's how it's supposed to be when you're the big brother, when you're John Winchester's son.

It's been years since he acknowledged that the world he grew up in didn't start and end with the man, that there may have been a handful of times when Sammy was right, and that he came pretty damn close to having 'how high?' left as his only legacy. He's not that guy anymore, but when he's in a tough spot, when he's stripped down to his last layer, when it's just raw adrenaline and survival instincts he's got left, it's still his father's orders that keep him moving, still that rough, no-nonsense bark that gives him the drive to press on.

You fall, you get up.

You bend if you have to, but you don't break.

There's no such thing as square here. It's for the sake of reputation alone that had him threaten, "Keep your nose clean." He owes a lot to Benny, that's for damn sure, and to Cas, the poor bastard, but he owes a lot to his father, too. That voice that kept him moving forward when his mind was muddy and his legs were rubber and things were looking damn near as bleak and hopeless as they ever had.

Dean wishes like hell that he did, but he didn't come out the other side unscathed. He's seen shit bad enough that there aren't words to put to it, a whole heap of indescribable, unfathomable nightmare things that came back with him, imagines burned into his memory and blood that won't come out in the wash and marks all over.

The few thin, paper-white and puckered lines of scars from when he was relatively new to the game, when he was alone and weaponless and hunted instead of hunter, and just not _quite_ fast enough. The scrape of a vampire's fangs down the side of his neck, a pair of nicks from a werewolf's claws across the back of his left calf. He was quick enough before purgatory, and he's not looking to put it to any sort of test, but there might not be anything left on this side of existence that he couldn't outrun now.

The daily, inadvertent exercise of a lifetime of hunting gave him the benefit of the muscle he carries, burned enough calories throughout the day to allow him to eat and drink whatever he's wanted, something he's done well to take advantage of. A year fighting for his life in Purgatory maintained the muscle, but being as hungry as he's ever been and constantly on the run leaned him out.

He'd very swiftly reconnected with his need and thirst for hard liquor, but he's not sure he'll ever really get his appetite back, and it's just as well, because Sam, no stranger to adjusting to a life without his brother, had tossed or stored all of his clothing and seemingly unimportant belongings sometime after he disappeared.

Hopefully stored, probably up in Dad's locker in New York with everything he'd owned the last time he died in a somewhat permanent way. Sam is in enough shock over his sudden reappearance that he isn't being forthcoming about such trivial things, and Dean can't seem to muster up enough concern or energy to ask. In the grand scope of things, having more than one shirt just doesn't seem to matter all that damn much, and he's perfectly fine with new duds, with not walking around smelling like dust and mothballs and belated guilt.

Hopefully stored, because it just might actually kill him to entertain the idea of the alternative.

That Sam hadn't only not looked for him, but had seen fit to throw out anything that had been his. It's bad enough that his little brother had given him up for dead, a lost cause, but to add to it the thought that he'd scrubbed all evidence of Dean's existence from his life, save the Impala?

Yeah. He'd rather not entertain those thoughts.

He's having enough trouble sleeping at night.

***************************************************************************

"You want some dinner?"

The cabin's been steadily warming and filling with tempting scent of sweating onions and seasoned beef. Because apparently, Sam cooks now. Like some fucking Julia Child wannabe. It seems like just yesterday the kid needed help reheating pizza, when every idiot on the planet knows leftovers are better cold.

Dean doesn't even look up. "Pass."

Because he's mad, and suddenly doesn't want to be a beneficiary of Sam Winchester's half-assed charity when the jackass hadn't seen fit to pick up the damn phone when there were people – when there were _friends_ – who needed help and looking after.

Dean's stomach betrays him, growling long and low like a cornered animal at the very thought of food. Everything on this side of existence smells so ridiculously delicious, and he's pretty sure even the sight of a single stalk of broccoli could set his mouth watering.

And Sam knows it. Despite Dean's refusal, despite his unveiled anger towards his brother's abandonment of not just himself but also of the kid, he gently sets a heaping plate on the table next to his tense elbow.

"You look like death, Dean. You need to eat something."

"I'm good." Dean swallows a mouthful of saliva, followed quickly by most of a glass of whiskey, and tries to hold his breath. He fights not to shiver, feeling the creeping sensation of gooseflesh breaking out along his arms. _Fucking meat locker._ But it's not the cabin; coming out of the constant heat and humidity of Purgatory, it's been a rare moment when he's NOT cold. He'd kept the leather jacket for protection, not warmth. Better to sweat it out and sacrifice the thick, stiff sleeves to claws and teeth than his own skin. Damn thing had been in tatters by the time he stumbled through that portal.

"Dean."

Sam's tone would imply that he's anything but good, and the return of angry fire rising inside does well to warm him up. "I'm _good_ , Sam." Dean's fingers twitch for a refill of his glass. "Back off."

_Why start caring now?_

*****************************************************************************

"You still cold?"

 _Gonna put a fucking bell on that kid._ Dean sniffs loudly to distract from what had to have been a very obvious startle and quickly throws another thin log on the fire. It was slim pickings out at the wood pile, forgotten for a full year like the rest of Rufus's cabin. Like a lot of things. "What about it?"

Behind him, Sam sighs. "Dean, it's like…yeah, it's sixty-five outside."

Dean runs a shaky hand down his face and spins on the balls of his feet to see that Sam had actually pulled out his cell phone to confirm the temperature outside, because _damn_ if the kid doesn't always have to be right. He wants to make some sort of crack about the phone, about how easy it seems to be to pull up the weather but not answer a damn call, but bites his tongue instead. The way his startled heart is still tripping around in his chest, the way he can't seem to catch his breath, it's entirely possible that anything he says at the moment will come out like he's on the verge of a crying jag, and that's the complete opposite of what he wants.

"Did you open the flue?" Sam continues with raised eyebrows, tucking his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

The flame catches and spreads quickly to devour the dry wood he's stacked, and a column of smoke escapes into Dean's face. He jerks away and coughs into his shoulder.

"That's a no."

"Did you need something?" Dean asks, eyes watering and face tight from the flush of heat.

Sam sighs. "I know you wanna check on Kevin, and you're right, I get that. I do. But you need checked on, too, Dean."

Dean settles against the hardwood and draws his legs up, lets his frozen hands hang aggressively between his knees and keeps his back to Sam. "I told you, I'm good."

"Dean, if I'd known – "

"Yeah," Dean grits out, clipped and annoyed and communicating very clearly, _don't you fucking say it again._ The fire grows, but only warms the outermost layer of the chills racking his body. He unrolls the cuffs of his flannel and yanks the sleeves down to his wrists.

"I just think you should take it easy for a few days."

If Sam knew _half_ of what he thinks he does, he wouldn't be standing here jawing at Dean, he'd be sitting across the room and shutting the hell up. "I gave you tonight, Sam. What more do you want?"

They both know Dean's not saying what he's _saying_ , that he's daring Sam to speak the words, to admit that what he wants is for things to go back to the way they were before his phone rang with a fairly aggravated but fully alive Dean on the other end. Dean thinks about how many times he recited Sam's phone numbers, all of them, over and over in his mind in that hellscape, to the tune of every single Metallica song, because at some point he'd forgotten his own birthday and the burn of whiskey and the taste of bacon, but he wasn't going to forget Sam.

All just to have his brother turn up nearly unreachable and looking at him now with that loaded frown on his face, like he's not quite sure this is the better of his options. Dean knows that look; there had to have been a girl. And girl turns big brother into a bulky, unnecessary third wheel.

"I'm gonna open the flue before you suffocate us," Sam says.

"Whatever you think is best," Dean returns icily.

Maybe Sam's right, whatever he's thinking and not saying.

Maybe Dean was clinging too hard to remember the wrong things.

************************************************************************

After months of catching mere minutes of rest at a time in nothing closely resembling a pattern, propped up against fallen trees where he'd all but dropped when his stubborn legs couldn't support him any longer only to be woken by something trying to rip out his heart or lungs, Dean's sleep schedule is screwed to the point of being practically non-existent. Not for lack of trying, but it's not like intention has ever counted for much. He's only a couple of days back in the world, but even two days on virtually no sleep is dangerous, not to mention nauseating. And can surely also account for some of his snappish, short-temperedness. He'll give Sam that much.

"We'll head out in the morning, okay?"

Said for maybe the fifth time, but in a higher register now, meaning, _Dean, it's the middle of the night, will you please SLEEP?_

But he can't. He relinquishes the more comfortable cot in the corner to Sam and stretches out on the couch under a pile of blankets, closer to the fire but also closer to the door because he's not an invalid, and he still has a little brother to look out for, whether said little brother wants it or not.

Out of what Dean would like to think is solidarity but is probably something more akin to guilt from a year spent enjoying fluffy pillows and cozy blankets, Sam resigns himself to stay up with him. But again, intention, and Dean's ears perk to sound of his brother's gentle snoring after about an hour of being relegated to their silent corners of the room.

Dean snorts and shudders under all of his fleece layers, thinking bitterly, _it must be exhausting not worrying about anyone but yourself._ Just thinking such a thing has him tied up in knots, wanting to rush to where Sam is sleeping just to make sure he's really here.

So far he knows only a few things for sure: beer is just as delicious as he'd thought, this world is brighter and colder than he ever remembers it being, and he missed Sam like he would an arm or a leg.

Dean finally dozes off hours after Sam and not long before the fire dies completely, if the chill in the room is any indication when he wakes later with a start, shivering from an uncomfortable concoction of cold and nightmare-supplied adrenaline. He feels like he's breathing loud enough to wake the dead, but Sam seems to be silent and still sleeping across the room, and he'd like to keep it that way if possible, so he presses his lips together and forces slow, calm breaths in and out through his nose.

"Y'all right, man?"

Not quietly enough, it would seem, because Sam is suddenly up and moving around with the soft swish of blankets and _pat pat_ of approaching bare feet on the floor boards. He stops short of coming into Dean's eye line, though, thank God.

"Dean?"

"Yep. M'good." If he says it enough times, it's bound to be true eventually.

That sigh again, the one that has Dean momentarily reconsidering how much he missed the kid. "Dean."

Dean pulls what energy he can from that slice of annoyance, rolls and stuffs his face into the gap between pillow and cushion. He gives a muffled order of, "Go to sleep, Sam."

Sam complies, because he's smart enough to know if they have a chance in hell of getting back to normal, it means little brother gets the back seat.

**********************************************************************

It was only a matter of time.

The next morning Sam's taking a piss and Dean's loading things into the car. Just weapons, anything from Rufus's stores that had seemed like it might come in handy because he doesn't have a damn thing else to his name at the moment, outside of his baby and the old flip phone he'd dug up from a box of discarded and forgotten lifestyle.

A breeze picks up, rustling the autumn-kissed leaves of the trees overhead, and it happens quicker than the time it takes to bat an eye. The lush, familiar forest and soundscape of Montana wildlife is gone. In its place, he sees only thin, gray skeletal trunks stinking of death and sulfur, hears the suffocating aural torture of constant death throes that had surrounded him in Purgatory.

Dean covers his ears and tries to blink away the imagery but can't. Disoriented, he stumbles back, hand outstretched for some semblance of balance and grazing smooth, sun-warmed metal. The sensation has no place in this world, and he jumps away from the feel of it, boot heel catching on an exposed root. He goes down in spectacular fashion, teeth knocking together as he lands solidly on his ass and elbows.

Some indiscernible amount of times passes before Dean realizes he's still on the ground and his teeth are chattering, the only part of his body that seems to be able to move. This chill of damp dirt and dewy grass is seeping in through the palms of his splayed hands, bringing down his body temperature. But it's more than that. Shock, he knows. But much like intention, knowing counts for exactly shit.

He also knows this isn't real, because he made it out. He and Benny, they made it OUT, and he's with Sam now and he somehow wishes simultaneously that Sammy would get his lazy, overhydrated ass out here, yet never have the opportunity to see him like this.

There's a crackle in the brush and bramble behind him and Dean forgets everything he knows all over again. He's stripped bare to instinct and reflex and don't die here and he skins two knuckles in his haste to pull his gun from his waistband. God, but it feels good to have a gun in his grip again. It feels like power, like the upper hand.

The rustling picks up as something grows closer, though it's a miracle he can even hear it over the embarrassingly loud pounding of his own heart. His finger is already tightening on the trigger when heavy footfalls rushing from the opposite direction have him rolling in the dirt, swinging the gun around, barrel pointed at a snarling Leviathan bearing down on him.

Bullet won't kill it but it'll slow it down long enough to find something that will. Dean gasps and squeezes off a round. The Leviathan ducks away as a rotted stump to its left explodes with the force of the bullet's impact.

"Whoa, whoa, Dean! Hey, whoa!"

Every evil piece of shit here seems to know he's the much-talked about human around these parts, but this thing sure as hell shouldn't know his name. That's a problem, but it's good to hear the panic in the son of a bitch's voice. Dean's muscles tremble as he swings the gun around, again taking aim at the big mouth.

Who roughly smacks the gun out of Dean's hand instead of trying to eat his face, grabs him by the upper arms with bruising force and gives him an unforgiving shake that sets his teeth knocking again.

And that's when Dean realizes the big mouth isn't so much a Leviathan as it is an extremely alarmed – and possibly slightly pissed – Sam Winchester.

And the scenery mercifully shifts back.

Quiet, no monsters screaming as they rip each other apart. Just the gentle swish of leaves and the rush of a nearby creek babbling into a waterfall over a squat stack of rocks, the soft thumps as a small chestnut-colored rabbit hops innocents from the bush beyond Dean's shaking shoulders.

_Fuck me._

Neither of them has ever fucked around with kid gloves when there's a gun in their faces, and Dean folds his suddenly aching hand to his chest as he lets his head fall back with a _thunk_ to the ground. "Jesus, Sam," he says shakily, by way of apology. "I didn't see you."

"Wh – I was standing right here!" Sam's face is red and he's pissed and, yeah, that makes a lot of sense. "Dean, you shot at me!"

He has every right to a sarcastic retort, to point out that this is his first such offense and he'd be hard-pressed to count on only one hand the number of time Sam has shot at HIM, but his defenses have all but fallen by the wayside at the moment. Dean can only roll his head against the dirt as he admits, "No, not I didn't SEE you. I didn't see YOU."

College Boy has nothing to say to that one, and Dean finds the silence unnerving, wishes for it to go away.

"What did you see?"

But maybe not quite like this. Sam's put forth the question hesitantly, because he'd forgotten Dean but he still KNOWS him, and knows there's probably no chance in hell Dean will level with him here, but since they've both been _through_ actual Hell, he figures why not.

So Dean follows suit, and figures why not. "Leviathan."

There's a sigh and a thump as Sam cautiously settles next to him in the dirt. "S'that what you fought? When you were…there?"

"Yeah, mostly." Dean swallows the frog in his throat that feels like an elephant. "But you'd be surprised how many things slow down when you take off their head."

Another horrible, torturous stretch of silence becomes a yawning canyon between them.

"I didn't know. Dean, I…I didn't know."

"Yeah."

***********************************************************************

_Continued in Part II_


	2. Part II

Sam resigns to give Dean a moment to collect himself, because he's blowing like a racehorse and shivering with what Sam assumes is some kind of panic-induced shock and if he weren't doing either he'd surely be pissed his brother was sitting so close, not to mention staring at him.

So Sam pulls upright, wipes dirt from his palms and moves to collect the things he'd dropped when he came sprinting out of the cabin to see his white-faced, too-skinny brother hyperventilating and rolling around on the dirt with a gun just to not only aim the weapon at Sam but actually pull the goddamn trigger. Sometimes payback takes a while to come back around, he figures.

"Hey," Dean summons him back, rough-sounding and like speaking is the hardest thing he's ever had to do. Sam's not sure how time works in Purgatory, but it seems like Dean has aged ten years since he's been gone.

"Yeah?" Sam hefts the straps of his bag over his shoulder and begins the search for the dropped car keys. He'd better find those but quick, because when Dean comes back to himself he's going to want to drive. He's going to want _normal._

"You still got that hoodie? The gray one?"

The one Dean's spent years stealing at every opportunity instead of finding one of his own, the one that's been passed between their bags a dozen times over since they first reconnected a lifetime ago. Sam does a quick mental inventory of his belongings, then pauses, backtracks, and does a quick physical inventory of his brother.

He hasn't yet moved from his splayed position on the ground and is still somewhat shivering, shock or cold or some lingering combination of both. Lack of sleep, or hunger, even, because the night before Sam had stopped just short of pinning him down and force-feeding the stubborn ass dinner. Man can't run off whiskey alone, but Dean's sure making a hell of a go at it, just to spite his brother. Sam's not saying he doesn't deserve some degree of spite here, but not in the way of Dean's too familiar self-destructive tendencies.

Still clutched tightly to his chest, Dean's right hand is an angry red from Sam smacking the gun away, but he's not going to apologize for that, and he knows he's not going to be expected to. It might even be helping, some small sensation of physical pain that's HERE and NOW to bring him back from wherever he was and whatever he was seeing when he was waving the damn thing around. Sneaking a peek at the faded, barely-there scar on his own hand, Sam knows he can relate to such a need like no one else, and maybe that's something Dean should be reminded of, so he knows he doesn't have to keep hiding behind this stubborn and untrue mantra of _I'm good._

Or maybe that's just something Sam wants to tell Dean to make him feel better about himself and whatever role he may have in all of this. But Dean was DEAD and how was he supposed to know otherwise? If he'd known…well, there's no way to say for sure he'd have been able to break Dean out of there. But there's no way to say for sure he wouldn't have. And that's what he's going to have to live with. He's got his brother back, so he supposes a little bit of guilt as an aftertaste can't really be that bad, all thing considered.

Dean finally, stiffly moves to sit upright, drawing Sam's attention. He raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Sam realizes the pause after Dean's initial question has turned into an extended, silent moment while he was lost in his own thoughts.

He clears his throat and smiles like the suddenly embarrassed look on his brother's face doesn't break something inside of him. "Yeah, I think. Maybe."

Dean nods and averts his eyes to the relative safety of the ground, absently brushing away dried leaves and twigs that have stuck to his collar and hair.

The entire tableau seems eerily familiar, like Post-Hell Dean all over again, but without the automatic, fabricated denial of _I don't remember a damn thing._ He was jacketless and shivering then, too. Sam turns and pops the trunk, digs through the bags there until he comes away with a wrinkled but only slightly ripe-smelling coat for his brother, who seems to need it despite the comfortable nature of the morning. He's not going to get a lot of opportunities to ask, but clearly there were more stark differences between this world and Purgatory than the violence, because Dean's been acting like someone who's just moved from a muggy, tropical climate to a more tepid one, and with the way he's been squinting, even in cloud cover, Sam's going to have to dig up some sunglasses for the guy, too.

The gun's gone now, resting safely out of play in a patch of weeds and sunlight, so Sam leans against the car and pulls on the kid gloves. "Was it hot there?"

Dean drops his hands to his lap, still rubbing his enflamed right one. "Like a fuckin' swamp, Sammy."

Sam should be concerned about how open Dean is being, but he knows it's a temporary side effect of the complete breakdown he's just witnessed. He figures when you're on the offensive for so long, it must be hard to reconstruct a proper defense.

So he settles once more on the ground next to his brother, hands over the coat, and continues to prod, helping him get there. "Yeah, you look like you spent a week at the beach," he comments, ignoring the visible scar that runs from just below Dean's left ear to disappear beneath the collar of his shirt and focusing instead on his sun-tanned face.

Dean blinks, stares at a spot in the trees. A spot far away, but still in this immediate area. Still in this world. "Yeah," he says steadily. "Yeah, a week." And just like that, the window is closed. He's got his fortress back up.

He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to remember, and Sam was just given a front-row seat as to exactly why. And, yeah, he gets that. He's got things he doesn't want to remember, either.

But when something distracts him and he thinks of Amelia he doesn't come out of the memory waving a loaded gun around. _Priorities, Sam._

Sam missed his brother. He did.

And he hopes to get him back soon.

Dean swallows and shoves all the way up off of the ground, looking around for his fallen pistol. "We should get going."

"Yeah." Sam tosses him the keys when he straightens and has the gun tucked safely away, and smiles when Dean's eyes light up.

It's a different story when he asks about the dog smell in the Impala.

***********************************************************************

_"It felt pure."_

Sam heart drops to his stomach, but Dean is still _just_ mad enough to keep going. Or maybe he's just trying to distract from this moment of vulnerability. Trying to kick dirt over the fire.

"But I, uh, didn't have any _girl_ keeping me warm at night."

 _For Chrissakes, Dean, didn't_ you _turn to a girl when I was dead?_

Sam bites down around the retort, because it's not the first time some variation of the thought has crossed his mind, and maybe that argument was another part of his justification of why he allowed himself to burrow into his own little corner of the world with her. But maybe more so because he can already _hear_ Dean's reply, pissed and snappy and driven by exhaustion and hunger pains.

_"I wasn't dead."_

And Sam didn't KNOW that, and none of it needs to be said again. They have to find a way to move past this unending carousel of a dispute, because the last thing they need is to get into this fight, saying things neither of them means.

He slaps his thighs and stands with a sigh. "I'm gonna get some air."

***********************************************************************

Dean limps for a while when he first wakes up, in such an obvious, unguarded way that Sam's sure he can't possibly know he's doing it. If he did he'd hide it, because there isn't an ounce of acceptance or resignation in his ass of a brother, just fight and grit and a stubborn streak to beat even that of their own father's. He wouldn't be standing here otherwise.

Its reason is unknown, source unseen. Whether from some injury he'd received in Purgatory or just a now-permanent side effect of the plaster cast the idiot had sawed off of his own broken leg a week too early the previous year. A stiffening of muscle, a locking of joint telling his brother as gently as possible that he's not as young as he used to be, going by unacknowledged. And Sam is enabling it by staying just as silent.

_"It felt pure."_

_"It was bloody."_

It's not been much, but what little information Dean _has_ volunteered hasn't done well to quench Sam's curiosity, has only left more questions. He's seen some evidence of bodily harm, a few unfamiliar scars and a handful of lingering bruises. A heavy sense of exhaustion his brother can't seem to shake. Dean should be listening to what the limp is saying to him; he's not as young as he used to be. One of these days he's going to stop bouncing.

Sam swallows, knowing there's no way to make what he's about to ask sound nonchalant and off-the-cuff. He tries to compensate with a casual lean against the counter, like the thought's just sprung into his mind while he's waiting on the slow drip of the motel's percolator, instead of festering quietly like a cancer. "You let anyone check you over since you've been back?"

Dean stiffens in the middle of his arduous journey from his bed to the bathroom, doesn't move or speak for just long enough that Sam figures he's doing a quick self-triage to determine what would provoke such a question. "Like who?" he finally asks, with any icy tone and a level stare.

 _Fuck, Dean._ "Like anyone, jackass. I'm assuming you weren't having water balloon fights in Purgatory."

"I'm okay."

A variation of the same old song and dance, but not really.

"Yeah, I know." Frustrated, Sam sighs and grabs up his paper coffee cup one drip too soon. The drop of steam-heated liquid stings when it hits the back of his hand, but he figures it hurts a lot less than anything that happened to Dean.

************************************************************************

Sam tears his eyes away from the thermostat, confirming once again that his brother's set the room to a balmy seventy-seven degrees, and stares across the small space at where Dean is perched straight-backed on the edge of one of the beds. Every sound beyond the walls of the motel room draws his attention, his head jerking left and right and left again so suddenly he's sure to give himself whiplash. Sam frowns, forcing himself to think how new and unfamiliar even the most trivial of sounds must seem to his re-acclimating ears. This is still Dean, the brother he knows and remembers and has always had…he's just a little rougher around the edges. A cherry ride with the smallest ding on the fender.

It's been a few days, and they're both still striving to reconnect and rediscover _normal._ He's happy to see Dean's anger has abated, but it's bringing into stark reality what the mask of anger was concealing, just how bad off he really is. There's a short list of things that are sure to lure the old Dean out of this twitchy, pale version. Sam's not about to go out and get a hooker for his grown brother, so he moves to the next item in line. "You want something to eat?"

Dean's head snaps up, eyes wide and childlike. "Oh, God, yes."

It's also good to see he's moved past the stubborn streak that so recently had him rejecting Sam's offer of dinner solely on principle. He nods, more than happy to cram some junk food down the jerk's throat. "Pizza, burgers, Chinese, what?"

"Just, yes."

It takes a moment for Sam to realize that Dean literally wants all of it, everything he's mentioned, and he swallows, thinking what an ass he's been focusing for even the rare moment on what he's lost. How it doesn't even compare, and how literally little he knows or could hope to understand of what his brother's been through.

He averts his eyes, searching every flat surface for where the Impala's keys have been dropped. "Stay here. I'll go."

It should concern him that Dean doesn't fight him on that, because he's not sure what he's going to have left of his brother when his fight is gone.

***********************************************************************

Sam opens the door of the motel room and before he can blink his shoulder blades are bouncing off of the wall and Dean's got the business end of a big ass knife pressed against his throat. The hand without the knife is flattened and pressed against Sam's chest with bruising force.

This is exactly the reason he'd pressed for a No Guns In The Room rule, but he still should have seen this coming. But Sam's finding himself incredibly ill-equipped to handle this situation. He's playing everything by ear, because it's not like his brother came back with any sort of operating manual. He doesn't need to pop into the local library to know there's no Idiot's Guide to Dealing with Your Traumatized Purgatory Survivor. Maybe he should have penned something himself, after the whole debacle with Hell.

Sam carefully releases the handles of the plastic grocery and takeout bags, allowing them to swish and thump to the floor so he can raise empty, threatless hands to his brother. His heart is galloping against his ribs but he makes no other movements, says very gently and calmly, "Just me, Dean."

Dean blinks hard, twice, and inhales roughly before he pulls the knife away and drops it to the thin carpet with a dull _clatter._ He steps away, turning his back to Sam and interlocking his fingers behind his head, gripped so tightly Sam can see the stark white of his knuckles from across the room. "God, Sam. Fuck."

Sam relaxes his shoulders and swipes at the stinging spot on his neck. "Hey, no harm, no foul." He looks down and finds a smear of blood on his fingertips. _Damn, that mother's sharp._ "Or, no foul, anyway," he amends, trying to smile at his brother but Dean won't look at him.

Dean continues to pace the small stretch of real estate between bureau and beds, steadying his breathing by striving to keep pace with his slow, heavy steps. He whirls on Sam. "Don't you knock?"

"Wh – Dean…no, you're totally right." Sam nods in genuine agreement of his complete incompetency. He stoops to gather the fallen groceries, wincing at the sight of spilled rice from the white paper container that had popped open in the drop. "Next time I'll knock."

Dean meets his eyes and nods, like they're both in agreement that the lack of knocking is the problem here. He unhooks his hands from around his neck, and Sam can't NOT see how badly they're shaking. "So…food?"

"Sure," Dean agrees, though they both know any appetite he'd managed to find earlier is long gone now.

All the same, Sam is not above the force-feeding thing at this point. "And then sleep," he presses, in a tone that doesn't invite argument.

"Uh huh." Though it's just as obvious that won't be happening, either.

Sam thinks he might be able to scrounge up some form of mild sedative from the depths of trunk, and realizes he's also not above drugging his brother. But they're not there yet. Close, but not there yet.

Sam can make some adjustments here. Can take his cues from Dean and eat when his brother is hungry and sleep only when the idiot falls down unconscious, and knock every time he enters a damn room in between, because he would love for this to be a one-time – or, two-time – incident.

Dean is dangerous under the best of times, and at some point here his scales are going to tip, reflex overtaking awareness, and Sam will be left with an extra hole, or a sliced throat and arterial spurt.

He'd like very much for it not to come to that.

******************************************************************

Autumn is approaching, but there is a lingering heat and sense of summer at the peak of each afternoon, cooling slowly and steadily to a comfortable temperature in the evening. The kind of nightfall Amelia would have loved to sit outside and enjoy with a beer.

They've had a pretty good stretch of days, almost verging on that _normal_ thing they're both so desperate to find and grab hold of, and Sam is feeling just nostalgic enough to give it a go at getting Dean to do just that. Sit outside and enjoy a beer. Maybe in Dean's case, several. But Sam knows now that he knows enough to not judge.

Dean grumbles but agrees. He says he'll be damned if they're going to sit out on the porch of their motel room like a pair of twittering old ladies, so they pack the cooler and drive out to a spot just beyond the lights of city, just like they used to. Park the Impala along an ideal stretch of two-lane that gives a clear view of the setting sun, streaking the open sky with bleeding colors like a watercolor painting.

When the sun falls away completely and the stars come out, and Dean starts his now-daily ritual of shivering despite a relatively mild night, Sam slides off of the hood and reaches through one of the open windows to retrieve his jacket. He hands it over wordlessly, along with a fresh beer.

They don't have to acknowledge it's happened, but the baton has been passed. At least for the time being, it's Sam's turn to do the taking care of.

***********************************************************************

_End_


End file.
